A Butterfly Beats Its Wings
by stormnml
Summary: Word of God says two universes never crossed paths, but what might have happened if they had? Add a new face to the mix and things change. Pieces of conversation, a battle, a tournament, a future... Suddenly, a world we knew is gone. Or, an exploration of what might happen if BB was MFB's past. Warnings: OC, AU, rated T for future chapters.
1. Past is Prologue

**Alright, so. After having an all out marathon with my brother of Beyblade to Metal Fight Beyblade and beyond, he asked me, "What do you think would be different if the two universes weren't separated?" That sent my mind off on a wild goose chase as I worked through everything. I put it all down on paper and poof! I had a story outline.**

 **So, warning, this fic is a x-over of the original Beyblade and MFB, but not quite in the way you'd expect. In this universe, the Bladebreakers came about sixteen years before MFB. Therefore, the MFB characters won't be showing up for quite some time! (I've gotta get through BB, V-Force, and G-Rev and some filler before we get there.) If you came here to read an awesome showdown between the Old Guard and the New Guard, you are in the wrong place. This is going to be a long, wild, likely bumpy, and very hellish (for me) ride. Hang on tight!**

 **Double warning, I'm also basing everything off of the dubs. I grew up with the MFB dubs, and the first stuff I found of the originals were dubs, so the names and characteristics of the characters also came from the dubs. This also means no Japanese honorifics or anything because I'm fairly sure I won't do them justice. I'd rather write something correct-ish than cannibalize another culture. That being said, however, I will still do my best to research everything I can to make this as accurate as possible. This is a love-letter to a franchise.**

 **I unfortunately do not own Beyblade or MFB. If I did, we'd have had more Shogun Steel/Zero-G after the DNA incident because honestly, who doesn't love adult Gingka?**

 **P.S. I'm also doing an OC here, so if she gets Mary-Sueish, send me a warning. If I'm irredeemable, I'll die of shame.**

* * *

One of the first things I remember is drowning in something impossible to describe, even now. It was like a blanket of energy had draped itself over the world. It was thick, thrumming with carefully contained power; it was easy to get lost, to feel like oxygen couldn't reach my lungs, to wake in the night gasping for air.

And I was the only one who felt it.

I think that was the worst part when I was young. No one understood. No one had a name for what I was feeling. It was nameless, faceless, and I was powerless under its heavy weight. The energy became my personal monster, no, my waking nightmare. Anything requiring breath, from speaking to running, terrified me to no end. I refused to talk or exorcise. I quickly fell behind my peers in development because every time I tried to learn, the blanket smothered me once again.

Then, I saw my first Beybattle.

It was a chance encounter, something that just happened, though, I realize now that it would have happened somehow. Beyblade was far too popular for me to avoid it forever,

I don't even remember the boys names, I just remember that feeling. I remember the storm of energy brewing around the tiny ring and the passion in their eyes. Everything snapped into focus, and suddenly, I had a name, I had a face. I couldn't quite see it, but the echoes of battle, the whisperings of a power beyond human comprehension, burned themselves into my mind. I became obsessed with the sport, and my first full sentence to my mother was my plea for a Beyblade of my very own.

Overjoyed, my parents bought me everything they could in the hopes that it would bring me closer to them. I'd discovered my method of harnessing and understanding the strange energy surrounding my life. No longer was I afraid of drowning with every breath; no longer was the cloak my enemy. I spent my youth beyblading against anyone I could find, which, of course, is where my journey began.

My name is Sara Hamada. At ten years old, I saw my first bit-beast. At ten years old, I competed in my first beyblade tournament. At ten years old, my beyblade career ended as quickly as it had begun.

By the time I was thirty, I'd seen the end of the world.

* * *

I first met Tyson Granger and Kenny "Chief" Manabu at the place where I'd meet most of my best friends: a Bey Park. The general assumption is that we'd known each other for years before then, having grown up on the same street. The truth, however, is fairly complicated.

Kenny is easiest to explain. He'd just moved from another district that summer; there was no way either of us had met before that fateful day.

Tyson, however, is a different story. It was impossible to be a blader in our neighborhood without at least knowing Tyson's name. He wasn't quite the strongest blader, like most people assume, but he'd always had the most spirit. It was said that his battles were always exciting and fun because he would get so pumped over every single match. It didn't matter if your bey was made badly or if you were super tough, Tyson would take any challenge with the same amount of fiery passion he'd be known for much later.

In fact, I believe that of everything that's changed about his battling over the years, that passion is the one piece of him that hasn't changed at all.

Anyhow, I avoided the boy at all costs, taking care to only go to the park when he wasn't around. Remember that energy I talked about? Well, it followed him everywhere. It surrounded him in the thickest concentration I'd ever felt, and the one time I'd talked with him - even after I'd found beyblading - I'd felt like I was dying. To me, the boy was a terrifying anomaly.

So when we met that warm summer day, my life changed forever.

"Alright, Moses," I cheered, "you can do it!"

Said boy smirked in my direction, giving me a big thumbs up before turning back to the battle at hand. "Now!" he ordered. His fist pumped into the air as his opponent's top flew out of the small arena and into the dirt. "I win!" he crowed.

His opponent's head dropped. "But I spent the whole day yesterday rebuilding my bey," he said softly. "Why didn't it work this time?"

"Tommy," I said gently, pulling his beyblade off the concrete, "this is the third time this week you've rebuilt your blade from the ground up." I inspected it carefully. It really was a well crafted blade. "Maybe instead of simply rebuilding your bey from the ground up every time you lose, you should take the time to get to know your beyblade better. You may have built it with all the right parts to get the results you want, but you don't know it's quirks and weaknesses until you battle with it enough."

He took the top from me with shaky fingers. "Is that really all it takes?" he asked, eyes shining with more than just tears. The expression on his face reminded me that this was a very impressionable seven-year-old.

"Well," I cautioned, "it takes more than just knowing your blade." I pulled my own blade from the holster at my hip. Its white and blue metal shined in the sun, showing off the care and detail I put into it, but also showing some the dings and scratches that were beyond my skill to fix. "Every blade has its strengths and weaknesses," I explained. I pointed at the tip of my blade. "This part makes my blade slower, but it also makes it spin longer. So, my blade has a lot of endurance, which means that in a drawn out battle, I have a better chance at winning.

"However, see this?" I said, pointing at some of the dings in the metal. "Against an attack type bey, especially one that can hit these points, my blade won't do so well without a decent strategy."

The boy nodded slowly. "So I need strategy too," he said carefully.

"Give it some time, kiddo," I said. I shot my fist out in front of me in a silent invitation. Tommy raised his own and hesitantly bumped it against mine. "Beyblading isn't easy," I advised, "but if you practice, you'll be amazing in no time!"

"Cool!" he exclaimed. I could almost see him vibrating in anticipation. "Battle me, Sara! Please!"

I scratched the back of my head sheepishly. I really hadn't intended for him to get that excited. "Maybe some other time?" I suggested. "I'm kind of waiting on someone. He wanted me to watch his battle." Both Tommy and Moses deflated at that. "But you can stick around and watch!" I amended, waving my arms in front of me. "Andrew usually likes an audience!"

"Whoa," Moses breathed, "Andrew? Who's he battling?"

I frowned, mulling over the question. "You know," I murmured, "he never told me." Odd, usually he'd brag about his upcoming matches. "I'm sure whoever it is, they're strong!" I said with a brilliant smile.

"Have you ever beat Andrew?" Tommy asked.

I grinned. "I came close a few days ago," I said. I looked down at my bey again. "He just barely managed to push me out of the stadium."

"Sara!" a voice called from the stairwell entrance. I looked up to see a gangly boy about two feet taller than me waving in my direction.

I waved back, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The small boy on one of the stone steps - detached from the scene, but not too detached - had inched forward during my lesson, but then he'd been feigning interest in the small laptop resting on his lap. Now, his attention was eerily focused on my movements. Most unsettling, however, was the concentration of what I'd dubbed Bey Energy hovering around his person.

"Hey, Andrew! You ready for your battle?" I called back with all the energy I could muster. A small group of kids came out of the stairwell behind him, likely wishing to see the fight soon to go down. I used my friend's sudden appearance as an excuse to move away from the kid and his weird energy.

The teen nodded. "Totally," he said, a grin stretching across his face. "You think you and I could talk strategy for a bit?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, sure," I agreed, "if you don't think it'll bother you before the match."

"Nah," he said with a wave of his hand, "I think I know what I'm gonna do, but I just want to be sure, ya know?"

"I get it," I said, sitting on a secluded part of the stone steps. Andrew took a place on my left side and shooed some of the rabble away. "So," I said, "what's the type of blade?"

"Attack," Andrew said without even taking a moment to think about it, "definitely an attack type bey."

So, fast and powerful. "Can I see your bey?" I asked softly. The boy obliged, pulling out a deep blue top. I held it carefully in my hands. "Did you add a heavier attack ring?" I asked.

He nodded. "I figured it would make it harder to knock-out," he explained.

I hummed in acknowledgement, twirling the heavy beyblade in my hands. A few dings dotted the blue metal here and there, but overall, it was in good condition. The heavier attack ring could cause some balance problems, but Andrew was right. A heavier bey was harder to knock-out than a lighter one. It was a good match against an attack type bey.

"I'm assuming you've tested it?" I said, handing the top back to him.

"A few times," he admitted, "there were some balance issues early on, but I think I've tweaked it enough to where there's not as much of a problem."

"That's the weakness of a defense type," I acknowledged. I placed my hands behind my head and leaned onto the stair behind me. "I trust you, though. If you say you've worked out the kinks, you've worked out the kinks." With that simple declaration, our conversation stalled. I occupied myself with watching wisps of Bey Energy float above my head. In areas where beybattles often occur, the energy grows strong enough to where it becomes visible.

"Hey, Andrew," someone called from the gaggle of bladers, "are you sure Tyson's gonna be here?"

I choked on my breath and shot up into a sitting position. "Tyson!" I exclaimed, my heart hammering at the mention of the name. "You're battling Tyson?" I paused and steadied my breathing.

Andrew took advantage of the moment. "He asked me for a match. What was I supposed to say? No?"

"You could have said something!" I fired back. "You know I can't stand him!" I began fiddling with the edges of my shirt, rolling the pink and white folds between my fingers - a nervous twitch I'd developed over the years.

The teen gave me a calculating look. Oh, Andrew knew about my "problem" with Tyson. It's hard to be best friends for seven years without him knowing the whole story. "Sara," he said, "you can't avoid him forever. What happens when you go pro? You might meet people with worse… quirks."

At that, a few members of our audience snickered. It was likely they were thinking of Tyson's loud personality. _Good,_ I thought to myself, _let them think what they want. As long as it isn't the truth._

I glared at Andrew and put on my best pouting face. "Fine," I muttered, "I'll stay, but only because you're paying me back with cookies later."

He chuckled. "Sure thing. My mom would be happy to make a batch or two."

"Uh, Andrew?" someone cut in with a note of urgency. "Someone's here."

Our attention snapped to the stairwell where a figure stood, hidden in the shadows cast by the sun. "I'm looking for someone named Andrew," a whiny voice said. The figure moved into the sunlight, revealing a stocky boy in a vest and skull t-shirt. He carried a large, burlap sack over his shoulder.

"Who're you?" I asked. Unkempt, completely not put together. Burlap sack over one shoulder. Red bandana holding back greasy black hair. Something about him made me tense at his presence, as if my fight or flight instincts were set to flight at the mere sight of him. I spared a warning glance at Andrew. Whoever this guy was, he wasn't good news.

The boy moved further out of the shadows. A clicking sound accompanied every swaggering step he took. "The name's…" he started, pausing for dramatic effect, "Carlos." His grin spread into a sneer at his name. Somehow, the look managed to morph his face into something not recognizably human.

I heard a soft voice behind me murmur, "Carlos?" A swift glance told me that the speaker was the young boy I'd noticed earlier. I locked eyes with him and shook my head. _Whatever you do,_ I warned in my mind, _you don't want to get mixed up in this._ The boy seemed to get the message, and with a small squeak, he ducked behind his computer screen.

"Is that your beyblade?" Carlos asked.

 _Don't respond. Don't respond,_ I willed silently at Andrew.

"Yeah," he said, glancing at the top in his hand.

The other boy snorted. "Wimpy." At his comment, a few members of the crowd roused from their surprised stupor and shouted protests at the new presence.

"Cool it," Andrew ordered the crowd. Immediately, everyone fell silent. "So," he replied, "you think you can beat me." He stepped forward.

"Yeah," Carlos answered.

"I'd like to see you try," Andrew challenged in that "you have no idea what you're doing" sort of way.

I gripped his arm and hissed, "Andrew! We don't know what he's capable of!"

My friend glanced down at me and gently shook me off. "Sara, I need to do this." His eyes steeled in determination. "This is my turf," he said loudly, more for the benefit of the crowd and Carlos than for me, "and I'm going to defend it."

I shook my head once more and opened my mouth to protest, but a cold look from the teen shut me down before I could make an argument.

"There's something you should know, first," Carlos warned, pulling the bag off his shoulder. "Just a little thing." With those ominous words, he flung the bag to the ground, spilling dozens of beyblades big and small onto the hard concrete.

I gasped. "The clicking," I whispered. The air around me felt heavy once more, like I was drowning in someone else's misery. It was a deep pang of sorrow, as if I had lost something immense. It took a few moments for my breathing to start again before I accused, "You stole those beys." At my accusation, the crowd gasped. It was an unspoken rule amongst bladers that no blader should _ever_ steal the beyblade of another. Beyblade didn't run on a spoils system. It ran on hard work, a little luck, and building a good blade.

The boy before us laughed. The sound was deep and throaty, as if he were suddenly much older than he appeared. He gathered his wits and levelled a dark look at me. "How did you know that?" he inquired.

"Why else would you have that many beys?" I countered. I did my best to ignore the wailing grief emanating from the spilled beyblades and shove it deep down in my mind. If I was going to help Andrew win, I needed an clear mind.

"Carlos!" the teen next to me called. Those dark eyes moved away from me and onto my friend. "If I win, I take those beyblades back and return them to their owners."

Carlos's eyes impossibly narrowed further. "Fine," he said, far too calm for the situation, "I take your blade if you win."

Andrew's fist clenched at the challenge. "You're on," he answered through gritted teeth. He stepped up to the bey stadium and pulled out his launcher. The other boy followed suit, his smirk widening as he pulled out his own launcher.

"Three!" the crowd called. It wasn't the battle they were expecting, but seeing their neighborhood hero take down a bad guy was just as exciting.

"Two!" Andrew called in response, his grip tensing on the launcher.

"One," Carlos said eyes narrowed.

The two blades flew from their respective launchers and into the stadium. Surprisingly, Carlos's orange bey spun into the center of the stadium and stayed there while Andrew's blade circled the outer edge. Usually, both blades would circle the outer edges of the stadium for a few seconds before falling into the center.

 _Something's up with that bey,_ I thought. A quick glance at Andrew revealed that he'd seen the odd behavior as well.

"Defense on defense," I said softly enough that no one else could hear. At this point, it would come down to weight, but with the other bey's behavior, I seriously doubted that Andrew could win the match.

"Hey, Andrew!" a tinny voice shouted through the tension. "Did you really start without me?"

I tore my eyes away from the battle and glared at the intruder. Tyson Granger had arrived in all his tri-colored glory. Usually, his brightly colored attire and smiling face would light up any situation in the neighborhood, but with stakes this high, no one took the interruption well, especially when Andrew's bey flew out of the stadium moments later.

Everyone stood in shock, staring at the deep blue blade that carried our hopes on its shoulders as it rolled along the rooftop.

Andrew made a choking sound as Carlos snagged the blade from the ground. "T-Tyson," he said, finally finding his voice, "I'm sorry, but our beybattle is off this afternoon."

"What?" Tyson exclaimed. "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, he's serious," Carlos said, winking at Andrew. He turned away from us to glare at the new blader. "He's saying get lost, kid. What don'tcha get about that?" He turned fully and changed his posture from one of confidence to one of aggression. "I'm gonna take your friend's blade, and you're next on my list. Got that?"

"Tyson!" I called. "He takes the blades of people who lose to him!" I pointed at the ground where Carlos's burlap sack had been discarded. "Don't fight him! Leave!"

"You shut up, girl!" Carlos snapped, whirling his eyes on me once more.

Behind him, Tyson was gritting his teeth. "Man," he muttered. Carlos whirled around, ready to goad Tyson into action again, but the other blader beat him to it, throwing out an impassioned, "That's just wrong!"

At that, Carlos froze, his shoulders tensing beneath his vest.

Tyson took a breath and raised his eyes so that he could look the thief right in the eye. "To bladers, our blade represents us in battle, whether we win, or lose. We blade together, we win and lose together, and we even fix our blades together. So how dare you take them away from us?"

"For fun then, I guess," Carlos answered the rhetorical question. He started laughing again. Unlike the laugh from before, this one felt entirely fake.

 _Tyson, he's goading you. Don't listen to him._ This was bad, very bad. If I didn't do something now, another strong blader would lose his blade today. If we wanted to win, we'd have to stall for time.

"Tyson," I said suddenly, "your blade is damaged, isn't it?" It was complete bull, but it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. "Maybe you should hold off on battling Carlos until we get it fixed."

"What?" Tyson said, a confused look taking over his face. He pulled his blade out of his pocket. "It's not damaged. It's just-"

The kid with the laptop from earlier shot out of his seat and strode over to Tyson, snagging the boys blade from his hand. He made a show of inspecting the blade carefully. "Sara's right, there are some deep scratches on your blade. We'll need to get these fixed, or your blade will fall apart." He kicked Tyson in the shin, silencing the retort the blader was about to make. "How many times have I told you, Tyson? You can't just shoot your blade around willy nilly without taking proper care of it."

"Carlos," I said. The other blader didn't acknowledge me, but I knew he was listening. "It won't be any fun taking down a weak beyblade. Wouldn't you want to face Tyson when he's at his strongest?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little kid unapologetically jam his foot into Tyson's. The blader's face went red, but he stubbornly refused to cry out. The rooftop waited with bated breath as Carlos mulled over the question.

Andrew signalled something to me. I ignored it and instead kept my gaze on the thief. I understood that whatever he did next would decide the fate of the neighborhood.

The stocky blader reached down and gathered up the scattered blades into his bag, making a show of tossing Andrew's blade in with them. He strode purposely past Tyson to the doorway. "Alright then," he said. The thief turned swiftly on his heel and jabbed a finger at Tyson. "We'll meet by the river. Tomorrow. At three."

Then, he was gone, taking his last words with him.

"What was that all about?" Tyson shouted once the thief's laughter faded. He levelled a glare at me. "You had no right to get in the way of a battle."

"Hey, you interrupted mine," Andrew accused. "I might have won if you'd stayed quiet."

I sighed. "You," I said, pointing at Tyson, "need a level head." I whirled around and jabbed Andrew in the side. "You shouldn't blame others. You'd have lost the match no matter what happened."

"How do you know?" Andrew argued. The gangly teen waved his arms in the air. "You didn't battle. You wouldn't know!"

I was about to bite back with something I would have regretted when the kid with the laptop said, "Let's go to the park. I can explain everything there."

I blinked and shifted my gaze to him. "Who're you?"

"Kenny," he informed me, holding out a hand, "and you're Sara Hamada. You're in my database They call me The Chief around here because I know all about beyblading."

"I've heard about you," I murmured. My thoughts followed the pieces of the puzzle in my brain as it put everything together. "You're the kid with the bit beast in your computer, right?"

"Yes, Dizzy," the boy explained.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Sara," a feminine voice, Dizzy, said from the small laptop. The moment she addressed me, the energy in the air spiked. A light headed sensation took over me, and I fought to keep myself from keeling over.

"So this kid is the real deal?" Andrew asked skeptically.

I nodded. "Word on the street is that he's really good at breaking beys down," I confirmed. I looked to Tyson. "Maybe you should take his advice."

He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "Fine. But you'd better apologize!"

With that last jab, Tyson disappeared into the stairwell. Kenny wasn't far behind.

"Uh, maybe we should follow?" Andrew inquired, staring into the darkness.

"Maybe we should," I agreed.

* * *

They say that past is prologue, which, I guess, is sort of true. But my meeting Tyson and Kenny - along with another important blader in our shared history - was the catalyst for everything to come.

And who said nothing good could come from evil?

* * *

 **Well, there you have it. I'm doing my best to make sure that we follow some stations of the canon, but not too much. The Butterfly Effect is all about how a slight change can alter the world in huge ways, right? So some things have to go the way they will. One thing I will say, however, is that the one speech Tyson makes is unchanged from the original because it's honestly a Character Defining Moment and really deserves to act as such. It also brings up some of the tenets of the entire Beyblade franchise, so it really needs to be there.**

 **So, like? Dislike? Questioning my sanity? (I sure am!) Review or PM me - whichever you prefer - to get in touch. I promise, I'll get back to you ASAP!**


	2. Intro Arc: Brick Walls and a Phoenix?

**Disclaimer: I do not own BB or MFB, if I did... I dunno, I'm too tired to figure that out at the moment.**

* * *

The walk to the nearby park - an actual park with swing sets and other fun structures, not the "bey park" we'd set up on the school's roof - was relatively lively. Kenny and Tyson took the lead, chatting between themselves and Dizzi about everything under the sun. Every once in a while, Tyson would shout something or other, as he was wont to do.

Andrew and I held back, following along a little ways behind the two boys, partially because Andrew really wasn't up for conversation, but mostly because I couldn't concentrate when I was around them and their Bey Energy.

"So, uh," I started awkwardly, "I guess cookies are off the table?"

The teen shot me a questioning glance. "Why would they be?

"I dunno," I said. "Maybe it's because you lost your bey to a jerk."

His face turned sour at the reminder. "You said I wouldn't have won," the teen murmured.

I sucked in a breath. Right, I'd said that. "Well… no. Not without a miracle," I added. I stalled my steps and let my head hang back. After two deep breaths, I finally made eye contact with Andrew. "You saw that bey's movements. It went right to the center and _stayed there._ Beyblades don't do that, not normally."

"But maybe -" he started.

"There's no maybe about it, Andrew," I snapped. _Why doesn't he get it?_ "That bey was heavier than yours. In a defense battle, the heavier bey is going to win. You know that!"

"Hey!" Tyson called from far ahead. He waved his hands up and down, bouncing on the pavement excitedly. "You guys coming or what?"

I turned on my heel and continued our journey to the park, trying very hard to ignore the hurt expression on Andrew's face.

* * *

The way Kenny explains it, a chance power surge resulted in his bit beast taking residence inside his computer. Her conscious merged with a piece of analysis software, effectively creating a living, breathing, beyblade archive. After searching through many names on the internet, she eventually began calling herself Dizzi - and Kenny's best and oldest friend.

His mother argues that for a lonely boy, it was the best thing that ever happened to him. His opponents in or out of the stadium argued that his "software" was his and the Bladebreakers' greatest advantage. Historians would call the artificial intelligence, "DIZZI", the reason for the Bladebreakers' impressive string of victories.

Kenny calls it his biggest mistake, and no matter how much she argues that having free reign over the internet is fun, Dizzi doesn't like the situation any more than her partner.

But I'm getting ahead of myself - or maybe I'm stuck in the past.

In a very uncharacteristic moment of poor planning, Kenny had led us right to the one place there wouldn't be any room for us to sit comfortably while also looking at his screen.

Thus, my uncomfortable predicament.

"Geeze, Andrew," I muttered, "could your knees get any knobbier?" I wriggled on the narrow slide, trying very hard not to jam myself any further onto Tyson's back.

The knees digging into my back shifted somewhat as the teen murmured, "Sorry."

I craned my neck to see over Tyson and his stupid cap. When we'd arrived at the park and realized that there was no proper seating, Kenny had suggested that we all stack ourselves on the slide in order by height. Well, it was at that point that Tyson had insisted he be right behind Kenny so he could see Dizzi's analysis properly.

This resulted in us placing Kenny at the bottom with Dizzi, Tyson right behind him, me behind Tyson, and Andrew bringing up the rear. Not only was I stick between two members of the opposite gender in a somewhat strange position, I was also stuck right behind two of the most powerful sources of Bey Energy I'd ever come across.

So yeah, uncomfortable was the best way of putting it.

"Will you two _please_ shut up? I'm trying to listen!" Tyson hissed.

I jabbed my elbow into his back.

"The blue one is Andrew's," Dizzi announced. On Kenny's screen, footage of the odd beybattle played out in slow motion. Andrew's bey descended on Carlos's with a quiet fury. I was sure that with any other bey, that would have been a match winning hit. However, instead of the surefire stadium out everyone expected, Andrew's bey flipped into the air and crashed outside the stadium.

I hadn't seen it well the first time, but right here in front of me was the irrefutable truth: Carlos's blade was heavier than Andrew's, by a _lot_.

"It's like punching a brick wall," I whispered in awe. Really a genius strategy.

"Whaddya mean?" Andrew whispered back. Tyson crowed some realization in front of me, but I ignored it for the time being to answer the question.

"Think about it," I answered. "When you punch a something solid and heavy, like a brick wall, the kinetic energy generated by the momentum of your hand stops almost instantaneously, causing more backlash on your fist. If you punch a pillow, the pillow will take your hand's momentum and you won't get hurt."

I pointed to the orange beyblade on Kenny's screen. "That's a brick wall," I announced.

Tyson and Kenny both looked at me strangely. I grinned and sheepishly scratched the side of my face. "I was explaining physics to Andrew," I explained.

Kenny adopted a thoughtful expression. "It's not wrong," he said slowly. He typed something into his laptop and a detailed breakdown of Carlos's blade - all the way down to the core! - popped up on his tiny screen.

"It's so heavy," Dizzi said, "it really is like hitting a brick wall."

"It also makes it ten times more stable than any other bey," Tyson announced. He took a look at the stadium he'd snagged from the rooftop. "So, in an endurance battle, it would last longer than any other beyblade!"

"An iron defense and long spin time," Andrew mused. He gazed at the screen with an unreadable expression. "I really wouldn't have won."

"Hey," I murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder - an even more awkward position to say the least, "none of us would have won." I looked down at the laptop. "How'd he do it though?" I asked Dizzi.

In response, the bit beast pulled up an even more detailed analysis than the first. "He's rebuilt his blade using a heavier metal alloy," she explained.

I thought deeply over the matter. Maybe… "Hey Dizzi," I called down to her, "could you run a simulation of a battle where Tyson's beyblade was two times faster than it is now?"

"Sure thing." Another screen opened, showing the same orange beyblade from before along with a new white one. The white bey circled around the orange for a few moments before swooping in for an attack. Carlos's bey actually moved out of the center this time, but the end result was still the same.

Kenny nodded and typed something frantically into his computer. "Dizzy, play it again, but with Tyson's beyblade going four times as fast," he instructed.

The video feed rewound, showing the same scenario, but with the parameters Kenny had placed on the beyblades. This time, Tyson's white beyblade knocked into Carlos's and launched the other beyblade out of the stadium.

"Alright," Tyson said with his usual enthusiasm, "so I need to make my beyblade four times as fast. That should be a cinch!"

"Getting a beyblade to spin four times as fast isn't easy," Dizzi warned.

Tyson leapt from his sitting position. "Let's do it!" he cried. In all his exuberance, he lost his balance, tumbling off of the slide and onto the ground.

I scoffed. "Do you even know how you would start?"

"I haven't figured that part out yet," Kenny muttered. Calculations and more simulations floated across his screen at rapid speed.

 _Geez,_ I thought with no uncertain amount of awe, _just how smart_ is _this kid?_

Tyson by this point had settled into a sitting position on the ground. "Well, we gotta figure something out," he said, his face growing serious, "or we're all toast."

Andrew rose from his position on the slide and gently fell to the ground. "Tyson," he said, "just forget about it." The despair etched on his features made my heart bleed. Oddly enough, Tyson and Kenny's Bey Energies leaked their own emotions. The two energies mixed with the ambient energy surrounding us and charged the air with some emotion I couldn't describe. "None of us could build something that strong, not that fast."

Andrew's words must have sparked something in Tyson, because the blader's Bey Energy spiked dramatically.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch what exactly he said that day, because the next thing I knew, the ground was rushing to my face and there was nothing beneath me.

The last thing I remember is feeling so much of Tyson's Bey Energy that I'd figured out what it had been leaking: hope.

* * *

Another myth about the Bladebreakers is that our parents never really had an impact on our lives, nor did they ever care about our beyblading careers. None of the team has ever refuted the claim, nor has any member actively supported it.

The truth is, our parents did much more for us than the records actually show.

Kenny's parents, in a bid to make him more popular, bought him his first beyblade - and anything else he asked for - in the hope that he would actually make friends. They also helped fund his tech hobbies, thinking something along the same lines as beyblade in regard to the whole making friends thing. His father actively complains that his son should have been a blader rather than an engineer.

The entire world of beyblading disagrees.

Tyson's mother died at a young age, so she was never around. As an archeologist, Tyson's father was always on some dig or another. Other than Christmas and birthdays, his dad really didn't come home that much. Hiro, Tyson's brother, was off on some adventure or another from the time he was seventeen and tried to stay as far away from the family estate as he could - I don't think Tyson ever really forgave him for that.

His grandfather became more of a father figure to Tyson than any other family member, having stuck through thick and thin with the boy. However, if the old man had his way, Tyson would be a world champion in kendo, not Beyblade.

I think the fact that his father was a Beyblade archeologist was what really drove Tyson to the sport. He believed that by being the best, he was getting closer to his father - his brother wasn't a slouch at blading either, so maybe there was a bit of hero worship in there somewhere.

Max's parents were divorced, but both of them had some foot in the Beyblade world. His mom was a researcher and actively helped the Bladebreakers on more than one occasion, and his father was the owner of a prominent Beyblade shop. The Tates instilled a healthy love of Beyblade in their son.

Their son, in turn, spread that same love to everyone around him.

Ray came from a village where beyblading was the norm. It wasn't really a sport to his family, it was a lifestyle. When the BBA approached Ray about competing in Japan's National Tournament, they hadn't exactly offered to fly him out on the company's dime and his village wasn't exactly the most affluent place on earth.

His parents scrounged for every penny to get him to Japan. Without them, there might not have _been_ the Bladebreakers - at least, not as we know them.

Kai's father lost his standing as heir to the Hiwatari fortune and Biovolt because of beyblading. Voltaire, his grandfather, and Boris, his childhood trainer, take the credit for Kai's success, but I'm not so sure. I think he was successful because he loved Beyblade; I think he loved Beyblade because he loved his father.

Well, Hamada, what does this have to do with anything?

If you're asking that question, then you haven't been paying attention.

I'm trying to explain that our parents are a fundamental piece of who we are. Without these priceless people, the Bladebreakers wouldn't be here and the world would have ended quite some time ago.

As I've said before, my parents actively supported my Beyblading habits. From the time I was three to the time I was ten, there was a bey on my hip and a launcher in my pocket. The sport was my rock and support when things went sideways, which, regrettably, happened often.

My dad actually had a prominent job in the BBA as a business analyst. He'd bring home anything and everything he could from work, including some top-of-the-line stuff we ended up using to create some of the Bladebreakers' most powerful beyblades - supplementing from Mr. Tate's shop, of course.

Because my dad's job paid well, my mom didn't work and stayed at home with me. My "defect" - the doctors claimed it was narcolepsy because of the odd sleeping/fainting spells and my inability to sleep - made it hard for her to be much more than a housewife. She had, however, been a decent beyblader when she was younger; she trained me often.

She also took care of me when Andrew brought me home after an incident - which was how I ended up shooting awake, gasping for air like I was underwater.

"Shh," she soothed, stroking my forehead, "you're home now. You're safe."

A few moments later, I'd calmed to the point where I wasn't gaping like a fish. "I fell again, didn't I?" I rasped. The scratchy feeling in my throat - coupled with the mass of Bey Energy that had pooled there - made me hack and wheeze.

She pursed her lips. "Andrew brought you in yesterday afternoon. He said you'd fallen off of a slide?" She smoothed the bedspread around me with gentle fingers. "You know better than to put yourself in situations like that," she murmured. How she managed to make a scolding sound so gentle, but still forceful, I'll never know.

I still find it entirely unfair.

I wheezed again. "Sorry," I muttered. I could feel myself slipping unconscious again, but a thought brought me out of it faster than lightning. "Wait," I said, shooting upright, "what time is it?"

"A quarter of three," she replied. I scrambled out of bed frantically, but she grabbed my arm just as I was grabbing my shoes. "And where do you think you're going?" my mother inquired. It wasn't quite one of those "you're not going anywhere" voices, but it was a cautiously curious "you really shouldn't be going anywhere, but I'm not going to stop you" voice.

"Bey stadium by the river," I answered. _Now where is my vest?_

She released my arm with a faint grin. "Vest is in the closet."

 _Of course,_ I thought to myself. Sure enough, my blue vest was exactly where she said it was. Thankfully, no one had changed my shirt from the pink and white one I always wore. I did, unfortunately, have to change back into my khaki shorts. I ended up finding a new pair in my drawers.

I ran out the door and into the hallway, but I didn't get too far. "You forgot something!" my mother called from the bedroom. I mentally slapped myself. I'd forgotten my bey!

Three seconds later, I was tearing through the streets.

* * *

When I arrived at the river, I was surprised to see Tyson and Carlos already squaring off on either side of the ring. Both bladers were in launching stance, but I was relieved to see that nothing had happened yet.

But Tyson was five or six steps away from the stadium!

"Ok," Andrew said from the side of the small stadium. I quickly ran down to join Kenny on the perimeter of the crowd that had formed on Tyson's side. "Go!"

Tyson sprang forward, sprinting towards the stadium. About two steps before he hit the ring, he lept into the air and launched.

"I get it," Kenny breathed.

I glanced at him. "Care to enlighten the rest of us?"

"Once you factor in the ripcord being twice as long..." Dizzi began.

"Add the running start and it's four times as fast!" I exclaimed. _Who knew?_ I grinned as Tyson's bey zipped around the stadium. "He's smarter than we give him credit for."

Carlos's blade began its familiar track, rushing towards the center of the stadium to gain prime defensive real estate, but Tyson's beyblade clashed with his slower bey. The white beyblade knocked the orange back to the sides.

I was vaguely aware of the trash talking going on between the two bladers, but at that time, I was more preoccupied with the new source of Bey Energy that was beginning to settle upon the field. Unlike Kenny's more subtle and inquisitive energy and Tyson's exuberant, restless power, this one was turbocharged with what felt like searing flames. It was hot and itchy, as if filling me with this awful, burning sensation. I looked around the area. There had to be a source.

 _There!_ I thought. Above us, standing on the hill overlooking the river, was a boy. The end of his scarf fluttered behind him in the breeze; they gave off the illusion of wings in the sun's fading light. His grey hair stood up in spikes and he had very intimidating looking gauntlets on his arms. Overall, he had the bad boy vibe down cold.

We made eye contact and he smirked. The Bey Energy surrounding him surged as one of the beys flew out of the stadium. I was vaguely aware of some commotion, but I couldn't focus on anything but the energy. It was all consuming - almost like a wildfire, if I were honest.

He broke eye contact and lept from the hill and landed directly before Carlos, who looked like he had been about to run for it. What scared me the most was the unadulterated look of terror on the thief's face.

With the way this guy was giving off energy, I could understand.

"I always knew this day would come," he announced. He swept a cold look over the crowd, settling on Tyson for a few seconds before glaring at Carlos again. "You have proven yourself unworthy, Carlos."

He stepped forward. Carlos shrank back and held his burlap sack of pilfered beyblades possessively to his chest. "N-no," he whimpered, "please don't."

We all stood in disgusted fascination as the boy slapped the other blader in the face. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed across the water. He turned on his heel and stalked off into the sunset.

But Tyson wasn't having it.

"Hey," he called, "who do you think you are, coming around here like that? Some kind of tough guy?" His questions were accompanied by another huge spike in Bey Energy. This time, however, I was ready for it. I'm proud to day my vision only swam for a few moments.

The other boy stopped. His energy flared brightly and this time, I could actually see it - an orange/red haze rising from the newcomer. He turned back to us. "The name is Kai," he said. The words sent a shiver of terror down my spine.

For the second time in two days I found myself thinking, _Don't do it Tyson. Don't do it._

"I'm leader of the Blade Sharks, kid."

"Let's play."

This time, a powerful burst of white energy exploded from Tyson. As if in response, the red haze expanded as well. The vision was blinding.

I could vaguely hear my friends cautioning Tyson against the battle, but I couldn't say a word. Oh, I knew it was a bad idea, no doubt about it, but I was being pressed into the earth under the two bladers' powerful Bey Energies.

A pair of strong hands grabbed hold of my arms just before I fell over. "Is it Bey Energy?" Andrew whispered in my ear. I couldn't do anything but nod. This - the energy grew even more heavy - was _insane_. Absolutely insane!

Somewhere outside of my quickly fading reality, Tyson and Kai were beginning their own battle.

"Let it rip!"

The energy from both bladers swelled again, pulling me deeper into its pull. It shifted in intensity between the two bladers, almost like a positive feedback loop. One would attack, and they'd shift some of their energy to the other blader, but as it was sent back and forth, it would grow in power.

I couldn't breathe, but I did scream when the phoenix showed up.

* * *

 **Alright, for all parties concerned about updates: I might be a little sporadic. I'm getting these first few chapters up as quickly as possible because I'll be heading to Italy in... Two days, I think? I'm really bad at dates! But yeah, I'm taking a college course on Shakespeare over there four about three weeks, so I'm gonna be off and on. The plan is to (hopefully) get through about three chapters some time in the next week so I can get to the fun stuff! I'll try to update weekly from there on, so we'll see.**

 **On a side note, I haven't taken physics yet (I may be a senior in high school, but I skipped the physics and took AP Env Sci). I researched everything I could - no precedent for Tyson's jumping launch, so yeah, nothing I can do there - but if I messed up somewhere, please let me know! I just didn't like the way they explained Carlos's easy win in the show. What does endurance have to do with a blade flipping over right after making contact with the opponent's blade? I like brick walls much better!**

 **Questions? Comments? Concerns? (Why did I post this so close to my trip?) Review or PM me! I'll get back to you ASAP!**


End file.
